Saturday, 11:30 am
I'm up and ready to leave the truck stop. I just saw a beautiful purple-blue dragonfly. I always associate dragonflies and hummingbirds with my Father. They seem like little spiritual harbingers of goodness. I feel reassured and safe when I see them, as if I am in the right place, and someone is looking after me.
I've been writing as I go. Driving long distances gives me ideas, creative ideas, mundane ideas -- reminds me of things, stories I want to jot down -- and I always have to have a notebook and pen along with me to write on. I'm able to prop it against the steering wheel and write against it while driving, this thing is pretty stable, for a huge house machine on wheels, and I don't take any real risks, but it's nice to be able to jot down a thought or two, then later, I can bring my notes into my room with me and type them into my computer. Although whenever I write by hand now I realize how used to the ease of using the computer I have become and my hands cramp up when I write for any length of time. Oh well...
I noticed that the gas cap was hanging loose this morning, and don't remember leaving it like that when I filled it last night. I'm usually pretty careful about these kinds of things and was wondering if someone siphoned off a bit of gas while we were sleeping. I kind of doubt it. I'm always worrying about the RV when we rent them, they're so much responsibility; I worry about the generator, the water tanks, the propane, the battery, whether we have enough oil and gas, and whether we'll be able to flag down one of those guys on the playa who'll dump our grey water and black, (eww), water tanks, for fifty bucks, a beer and a hug.
Before I pulled out of the parking lot this morning, I pulled over to write some of this stuff down in my paper journal and noticed this couple sitting on a grassy strip in front of their car. They looked like any other middle-aged, overweight, Caucasian couple, except for the fact that they were wearing bright purple, tie-dyed tank tops, and were sitting on a rainbow colored towel. They didn't look like genuine hippies any more than I look like a Rastafarian with my fake colored dreads, but they were so colorful and sweet sitting there next to each other like that, that I had to jump out of the RV, run over to them, and ask them if they'd like me to take their picture for them. Luckily I didn't scare them too much with my friendly enthusiasm, but they didn't have a camera, so we agreed to take a mental picture of the scene together, and I think I left them feeling happier about themselves than they were before I showed up.
Viva el Hombre en Fuego!
I've put the head of Beau's giant bunny costume in the dining room window, and my telletubies are waving at people from the front and rear windows of the motor home. I remember when I was the first person I knew of who had ever seen a teletubby or had even heard of them. I saw them on television in London about a year and a half before they hit the US and they seemed so exotic and charming; I was converted and wanted to spread the word, "Big Hugs." Hey, I just realized, I sign all of my journal entries that way and didn't even realize how very teletubby-like this it.
This is the passenger side of the RV -- the side we use the most. It also happens to be the side we painted the least and the only one I took a picture of, sigh.
Do you remember that extreme weirdness with Pat Robertson, Jimmy Swagart, or someone like that -- thinking the lavender telletubby was gay? How odd was that? And frankly, how nice would that be, and who cares if he was? We can always use more gay people, if everyone would stop persecuting them, they'd be busy making the world a nicer place to live in. I suppose someone asked the telletubby character what his sexual orientation was and it got around, oh dear.
An enormous truck pulling several onion filled trailers just drove by. There must be millions of onions in there. I always enjoy watching the fruit and vegetables driving by on their way to the markets. So far we've seen Roma tomatoes and oranges. I wish a few would bounce off and hit my window so I could reach around, grab them and eat them.
Yeay, daylight. I love this part of our state. I guess it's the heartland of California -- so much is grown here. I know these entries will seem similar to entries I wrote last year as I passed the same sights, but these sights are so exciting to me. I love the little bits of mylar ribbon -- meant to keep the crows away -- that glint in the sun, as I pass rows and rows of grape vines and other crops. I love the apple orchards and the glimpses of ponds I see through the trees, corn and wheat growing alongside the highway. These sights probably seem normal and ordinary to most people, but to me -- a gal who has spent her entire life living in an overcrowded city, where one square acre can cost a million dollars or more and is crammed with as much building as the city will allow -- this is beautiful.
The cows make me sad though, every once in a while I'll catch a glimpse of a more bucolic scene, some cows sitting by the banks of a nice pond by some trees, but for the most part they are left standing in the baking sun in parched, dry grassy fields, or huddled together in feed lots and pens. It breaks my heart to see them like this -- like corn or wheat waiting to be harvested. I love cows!
"Oh Shit! What's This?"
Oh WoMan, I just risked my life in order to get out of the RV to take a couple of pictures of the cows for you. I pulled over as far as I could onto the shoulder, but this RV is certainly wider than a car, and it's not exactly like Cal Trans planned for people like me -- the cow tourist kind. I didn't even get good pictures because the poor cows, never having seen a woman with pink and purple hair, leap out of an RV and run towards them, freaked out when they saw me and ran away. I doubt I'll be doing that again, but there were some more dragonflies and damselflies mating in a little irrigation ditch that ran along side the freeway, keeping me from being able to get close enough to my beloved cow friends. I have got to find a friendly cow somewhere on this trip and get a kiss. I am missing that rough, catlike kiss, only ten thousand times bigger.
"Quick! Run away!"
I like the names of the towns we drive through. One of the first ones we passed yesterday was called Buttonwillow. I remember being amused by that name last year, but the ones that always make me laugh are Panoche and Little Panoche, which seem like a private little joke being played on us by someone who spoke a little Spanish, and thought we wouldn't, because if you pronounce it Panocha, it could mean Vagina and Little Vagina. And I've got to say how much I would LOVE to live in a town called Vagina, or even Little Vagina.
I woke up with one of Scott's songs playing in my head this morning. Then, when I thought about the lyrics, it suddenly hit me that I had never really taken the time to think about the meaning of the song, and it seemed so much more poignant because I think it's about his ex-wife Nancy. I've been humming it all day. I'll get the lyrics for your when I can get online. He says that his songs are built around ideas, fragments that come to him, but no matter what he says, I think he is operating on a subconscious level when he writes his lyrics, because you can lift most of his songs straight out of whatever is going on in his life at the time he writes them. However he writes them, I think he's a genius, and I don't understand why he isn't constantly flooded with compliments, or maybe he is and we just don't notice. I mean I know he does get compliments, but for all of the effort he puts forth, I wish success would hurry up and get with the plan, lift him out of his stale and super-stressful law-office job that he is withering in, and give him financial support so he can do his right work -- the work he was made to do.
We worked everything out before we left. The other situation worked out nicely as well, I can't write about that openly, but everything is okay again. Every time I leave for any period of time, or travel any distance, I feel the pang of the separation from Scott -- more than I would feel it at home if he were to go away. I feel as if a chord between us is being stretched more and more the farther away from him I get. It's good for me. It reminds me of how much I love him, how much he means to me, and that I want to work harder on us, work harder at making him happy and showing him that I love him, rather than just saying it. My life is so stressful, well, both of our lives are; it's too easy to get caught up in the wearying daily details, and forget to make the time to be a better girlfriend. I also spend too much time looking at what he doesn't do for me, and for us, and resent him. I always tell him that he is a glass-half-empty kind of guy, and he definitely is, but when I'm overwhelmed, which is most of the time, I guess I am too.
We're in Sacramento now and Beau is still sleeping in the bunk above me. I'm going to leave the generator running and dash, (Ha, for me dashing and shopping rarely ever go together), in to the local Walmart here to get the last few remaining supplies on my list. It never ends though, not until we reach the playa and there isn't anything more I can do about it. Then I just have to make do and share. I'm so driven, so obsessive, I want to ensure I have everything I could think of wanting out there, and not only that, but anything anyone else could possibly want as well. I want to be the gal who can run to her RV and come back with pudding if someone needs it.
Oh God, my back is killing me. It's because of the funny way I sit when I drive. I remind myself to sit properly, I put a pillow behind my back, try to relax my back and shoulders, but I always end up this way, and after a day or two of resting it, I'll be okay again. Problem is, I don't really have a day or two of rest ahead of me. What I've got is hard work, more work than I ever do at home. Lifting forty pound concrete pilings and steel poles just isn't something there is much call for at my house. And cases of beer, I don't even drink beer, but cold beer is like money at Burning Man. People just can't believe their luck when you give them one. Odd isn't it, how happy a little cold alcoholic beverage can make a person in the middle of a dry, dusty, and barren desert?
Okay, back to the highway. We should be at Phil and Mara's, (our friends who we'll be staying with before and after Burning Man), within about an hour.
Big Hugs, LOL,